


Through the Mirror, Darkly

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, History of childhood sexual abuse, M/M, Master/Slave, Mirror Universe, Rape/Non-con Elements, Whipping, all C/C dub-con, evil!Jasper Sitwell, no C/C non-con, slave AU, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is a problem Phil's been itching to have under his direct control for years now.  When he finally gets his chance, he's not about to waste it.  He wants Barton to be <i>his</i>, absolutely and completely.</p><p>A mirror-verse, dark AU with serious non-con (not C/C) and dub-con (C/C) elements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Mirror, Darkly

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [As Is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/609150) by [arsenicarcher (Arsenic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/arsenicarcher). 



> Warnings! Oh god, so many warnings. This is a mirror-verse dark AU. Clint is a slave. There's attempted rape (not C/C), reference of previous successful underage rape (again not C/C), and eventually dubious consensual sex (this time C/C). Coulson is _not_ a good guy, but then again he's not wholeheartedly evil. In his own twisted way he loves Clint and wants him to be happy. The sex is dub-con because Clint is Coulson's slave and cannot consent, and Phil is manipulating the situation so that Clint does eventually give in and agree to have sex with him. Please do not read if this would impact negatively on your own mental health.
> 
> Inspired by “As Is” by Arsenic Jade because I loved that fic, but wanted something with Phil not being such a nice guy. 
> 
> Beta'd by the fabulous Infiniteeight and Desert_Neon. THANK YOU BEAUTIFULS!

Fury likes to sit her on her knees beside his desk so he can stroke her hair or pinch her nipples whenever he likes. In his quarters she's never allowed to wear clothes, but at S.H.I.E.L.D. even _he_ is bound by convention. A slave might be a slave and therefore not a person, but decency demands they at least be covered up.

He's already had her once today, ankles clamped in the chains secured to his wall, one large hand holding her face-down on the carpet. He'd tongued her until she'd buckled, then made her beg until he'd fucked her, come spilling down between her thighs. That had been hours ago, though, and in his quarters. He's spent the morning since in his office flipping through reports, and she can read the lines of strain building between his eyes.

It's her job to watch for these things, to know his every tell. It's worth her life to know. 

"God fucking dammit," he growls. 

Natasha rubs her cheek against his leg. "What is it?" she asks. She knows that he wants her to ask. 

"Barton," he says, and that's nearly an explanation in itself. "He disobeyed Sitwell's order during an op and got a junior agent shot. He nearly got himself killed."

"Nearly?" she asks, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

Her master chuckles and runs his fingers through her hair. "I know you hate him," he says. "He did catch you, after all."

Natasha scowls. She'd been on the run for three months before Barton had found her. She'd been tired, defeated, and lost, but she still can't forgive him for besting her.

"Sitwell's quite upset with him," her master goes on, tapping the report. "By all rights, Barton should be shot for such insubordination. However," he temporizes, running a blunt nail over her chin, "he brought you to me, so I am prepared to be lenient."

Natasha knows better than to trust such a sentiment. There are other reasons for keeping Barton alive – some tactical, some personal. The most compelling forces her to speak. "Will you finally give him to Coulson, then?"

"Maybe," Nick Fury agrees. He reaches down and lifts her up, his strong arms placing her effortlessly on his desk on top of his paperwork. "Phil is finishing a job in Arizona. I'll keep Barton with Sitwell until he gets back to soften him up."

"Mm," Natasha murmurs, enjoying the thought of Barton with bruises on his face. Sitwell is not a man who takes insubordination lightly, especially from a slave. 

Fury chuckles and digs his thumb into the fabric over her clit. Natasha shivers. "I need a distraction," her master tells her, bending over to lick at one cloth-covered nipple. "Distract me."

"Yes, master," Natasha says, and obediently reaches up to take off her shirt.

 

*

 

Clint curls his toes inside his boots to keep himself from making a sound when Sitwell hits him. The senior agent has stripped him naked and bound him to the whipping post in the public S.H.I.E.L.D. gym. They've already accumulated something of a crowd. Clint's ears are bloody from Sitwell's fists, but he can still hear the murmur of the other agents. Every once in a while there's a moan, when someone gets too excited by the show. 

Clint knows that public displays of punishment are a particular titillation. Simmons likes to haul Fitz up from the labs on days like this, so she can fist him while he watches some poor fuck get beaten. Clint knows the punishment is his own fault – Sitwell had told him to stay where he was and wait for the shot. Clint could have explained that he'd seen a better angle, but what would have been the point? Sitwell didn't care about wind speed or directional force or any of the other hundred thousand things that Clint needs to think about on an op. All he cares about is that he'd given an order and that order hadn't been obeyed.

Sitwell hits him again, and Clint takes the blow. He'd honestly expected to be met with a bullet to the brain as soon as the helicopter touched down at S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters. This is better. It's better than life was before S.H.I.E.L.D., too. Unlike the pathetic idiots who argue for reform, Clint knows what it's like to be slave outside of the government. It's a helluva lot worse than what he's got here.

At least S.H.I.E.L.D. has a minimal age requirement for slaves, and they enforce it. 

Of course, there are multiple reasons for keeping Clint alive. He's the best marksmen they've got, and there are other agents, more highly placed than Sitwell, who would be disappointed if Clint disappeared.

Clint thinks of Coulson and shudders.

Sitwell finally realizes that Clint's attention isn't on his punishment. He stops hitting Clint with his fists and hooks a finger through the rough leather of Clint's collar. He pulls down, forcing Clint to his knees. The skin of his neck is chafed and raw, evidence of the escalating punishments Sitwell has been using to keep him in line. Clint grits his teeth to keep from making a sound as the collar rasps over abused skin.

Sitwell picks up the whip and turns back to Clint. Clint refuses to give him the satisfaction of whimpering. He keeps his shoulders as straight as he can, but the force of the blow still makes him gasp. Sitwell grins and hits him again. Clint grits his teeth and bares it. Sitwell is one sadistic motherfucker, but at least Clint knows he'll stick to physical punishment. He hates Clint, but he doesn't like boys – no matter how much Clint riles him up, Sitwell will never fuck him. He probably would if Clint gave away how much he hated it, but Clint has been very careful to keep that particular secret hidden. He thinks only Coulson knows.

Clint really fucking hates that Coulson knows.

Until the op in Milan, Clint had never paid Coulson much attention. He was a senior agent and obviously high-placed, but he cultivated an aura of reserve and had never interacted with Clint directly. Clint had been grateful for that. He'd been with S.H.I.E.L.D. for several years by that point, and was having a hard enough time keeping up with all the people who actively wished him harm. He hadn't had the energy to devote to the still, silent man who often stood in the corner and rarely spoke.

After that op, though, Clint had been excused by his current handler and given leave to clean up. He'd made his way down to the showers and hadn't noticed Coulson following him. He'd stripped and ducked under the spray before he'd realized that he wasn't alone. Slave quarters were supposed to be off-limits to active agents, but no one respected a convention like that. Agents went where they pleased.

Clint had stood under the spray and watched as Coulson entered the shower area. The other man had ignored him, stripping silently. For the next twenty minutes, Coulson hadn't done anything but wash himself. He didn't stroke himself or finger his hole or do anything remotely sexual. He cleaned his body and ignored Clint.

And he was clearly, achingly hard the entire time.

Coulson had an enormous dick. It wasn't long, exactly, but it was incredibly thick. Clint, thrown by the presence of the agent and convinced the entire time that Coulson was going to hold him down and fuck him, couldn't help but stare. His own balls had shrivelled up as far as they could go and his dick had hung limp. He'd been afraid. He'd wanted to run and cover himself, but he couldn't move. Running only made them want to chase you. Instead, Clint had stayed and kept his eyes on Coulson. He needed to know what Coulson was going to do. 

Coulson didn't do anything. He didn't even look at Clint, didn't ogle, didn't make suggestive remarks or low whistles under his breath. He just showered, and dressed, and left. 

And he still managed to make Clint feel intensely uncomfortable the entire time.

Ever since then, Clint has always _noticed_ Coulson. He'll see him in the hallway and watch him on ops. Coulson is always polite and slightly dismissive to everyone he encounters and has never, not once, directly addressed Clint to his face.

But he watches him. Coulson always seems to have one eye on him, even though Clint has never actually caught him staring. Coulson's suit does a fair job of hiding any time he gets aroused, but sometimes Clint can see it. Clint will turn to listen to the agent in charge of an op, and he will _feel_ Coulson's eyes on him. When he has leave to look back again, Coulson's attention will always be somewhere else, but his dick will be hard and thick in his pants.

Coulson wants him. Coulson wants to _fuck_ him. Clint knows this as surely as he knows anything, and he dreads the day Coulson finally lets go of whatever reserve of self-control has so far prevented him from grabbing Clint in the corridor, pinning him to the carpet, and having his way with him. The man's a senior agent at S.H.I.E.L.D. – he could do it and no one would blink an eye. Some would actively encourage him.

Clint flinches as another strike comes down hard on his back. Sitwell's circled him. He's obviously noticed Clint's lapse and is determined to remedy it. He spends the next several minutes turning Clint's back into raw meat, blood running down into the hollows behind his knees. By the time he's finished, Clint feels half-dead. Sitwell leaves him hanging from the whipping post and walks away. It isn't until he's gone that Clint has leave to shakily untie his fingers from the hand-holds and limp his way down to Medical.

The slave division of the medical wing is clearly marked. Clint doesn't like to spend much time here, but he knows it's inevitable. Dr. Richardson clicks her teeth when she sees the state of his back and files the forms that will put him on leave for the next seven days. Clint sighs as he climbs onto the hospital bed. He isn't happy to be stuck in Medical for that long, but it'll be nice to be off the roster while he heals. Sometimes his handler is a dick and puts him back into circulation before he's done recuperating, but he doesn't think Sitwell will be in charge of him for much longer.

Fury tends to rotate him to a new handler when he's pissed someone off enough that they've seriously considered killing him. Sitwell's probably reaching that point. By the time the report of this incident crosses Fury's desk, Clint will belong to someone else.

He shuts his eyes and tells himself not to wonder who that person will be. It hasn't been Coulson yet. There's no reason to think it will be now.

He hopes.

 

*

 

Phil really hates Arizona. It isn't the dry air, or the relentless sun, or the way the desert gets blisteringly hot during the day and freezing cold at night. That's nature, and Phil had learned years ago that it was pointless to complain about the weather. Either the heat would break or it wouldn't, and it was his job to finish the op either way. 

No, what Phil hates are the _people_. The lack-witted, red-necked hillbillies who make up the local FBI office and dare to call themselves professionals. They had completely failed to grasp the size of the threat presented by the mutant they had in custody, and had lost him.

"He's a disease-riddled mutant, as well as a slave," the FBI agent in charge says again, spitting on the ground in disgust. "He shouldn't have been able to waltz through our security."

"He has more intelligence and rational thought then the entire capacity of this miserable, backwater base," Phil retorts, straining to keep his voice level. "I'm not saying that you have to bend over and lick his boots, but you must not let your prejudice interfere in your ability to do your job."

 _Or your next job,_ Phil wants to say, but doesn't. He's going to recommend that Nick burn this entire facility to the ground during a 'training accident' and advise the FBI to give up and start over. He knows that other government agencies aren't up to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s standards, but Phil can't stand working with such incompetent people.

He spends the next three days locating the mutant and bringing him in. The fugitive _is_ incredibly intelligent, but he's also tired, hungry, and sore. Phil knows that despite the curses the man hisses at him on their way back to New York, the best place for him will be inside a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. The mutant-slaves owned by S.H.I.E.L.D. are always paired with mutant handlers. R &D has perfected the ability-inhibiting handcuffs that are now standard issue, and they make sure that agents with mutant abilities understand the importance of correctly handling slaves. Once the slave is acclimated, the handcuffs can be removed and the slave properly trained in their abilities. 

The integration of mutants is one of several reasons why S.H.I.E.L.D. is the primary organization in control of world security. The FBI, with its backward prejudices, will never understand.

Phil is tired and sore himself when he finally gets back to Headquarters. He'd showered and changed on the plane, but he wants to disappear inside his own quarters for three days and jerk off about a thousand times to the surveillance shots of Barton he has scattered around his apartment. He also wants to drink about a half a pound of coffee and sleep for approximately a week, but he'll start with the jerking off.

He needs to go by Nick's office first, though. He files the preliminary paperwork he finished on the plane, escorts their newest asset-slave to Holding, and walks the distance to Nick's office. The sooner he can get this meeting over with, the sooner he can get to his personal time.

Phil knocks and Nick calls for him to enter. He's got Natasha on his desk and he's giving it to her from behind. Natasha looks up at him and glares. Phil knows that she has no problem taking Nick's cock, but she doesn't like to have an audience. Nick knows that, so she must have done something particularly bad if she's being fucked when Nick knows people will want his attention.

"How was the op?" his best friend asks. He never stops giving it to Natasha.

Phil shrugs. He doesn't sit down, because he hasn't been invited, but he does cross his hands behind his back. "It's hot in Arizona this time of year. Dry. I think Richard and Johnny deserve a vacation."

Nick huffs a laugh and pulls out, stroking himself while he shoves a few fingers inside Natasha. She winces but accepts the intrusion. "That bad, huh?"

"I am going to lose it one of these days and order the extermination of the entire FBI."

Nick shrugs. "Wait another five years and I'll probably let you." He takes his fingers out and puts his cock back in.

"So what did she do?" Phil finally asks, glancing down at Natasha.

Nick's chuckle means he isn't actually that upset. "Snuck into the ventilation shaft above Medical and poured salt water over Barton while he was sleeping."

Phil can feel his heart rate pick up. He keeps the sudden surge of hope from his face. Nick never mentions Barton by accident, not since Phil revealed his interest. "Really? What was he doing in Medical?"

"Pissed Sitwell off and got lashed for it. He's off for a week while he heals, which might be more now because of this stunt." Nick's hand finds Natasha's nipple and twists it violently. She winces and reflexively pulls back, which grinds her into Nick, who fucks her harder.

"It sounds like Sitwell can't control him," Phil says, in what he thinks is still a reasonably level tone of voice.

Nick's vicious grin tells him that it's not. "I'll sign the papers in the morning, Cheese. You've been more than patient. Take the next month off to break him in and then I'll either give you two weeks for the honeymoon or you can take the head shot yourself. It'll be your call."

Phil holds Nick's gaze, delicious anticipation rising from his gut. "Thank you, boss. I won't disappoint you."

"That, I have no fear of," Nick says, and concentrates on making Natasha scream before she comes.

 

*

 

Clint's feeling better but he's still pretty sore by the time he limps away from Medical. He fucking hates that bitch Natasha – he'd thrown his back out screaming and rolling off the bed after her little stunt with the salt water. Richardson had kept him another two days because of that, and prescribed him muscle relaxants to boot. Clint hates taking anything that fucks with his concentration, but Richardson hadn't given him a choice. 

Now that he's out, he can throw the rest of the pills down the toilet in peace. That is, if his next handler doesn't force him to take them anyway. 

The paperwork had come in that morning – Sitwell is officially no longer his handler, though who Fury will choose to have power over him isn't yet clear. Richardson had removed the leather collar Sitwell had chosen three months ago when Clint had been assigned to him and replaced it with a standard issue S.H.I.E.L.D. collar that feels amazingly soft against his skin. Clint runs a finger along it once before turning and walking back towards the slave quarters. At least he knows his next handler won't be Coulson. He'd gotten back from the op in Arizona yesterday and if he'd been given Clint's papers, he'd already have picked him up from Medical. It's a small blessing, but Clint will take what he can get. 

He pauses in front of his quarters and waves a hand over the lock. The door slides open and Clint takes a half-step forward, stopping when he realizes that there's someone standing in his room. 

Clint would recognize that suit-clad figure anywhere. It's Coulson.

Clint blanches. The senior agent is waiting beside Clint's bed. He looks up when the door opens and Clint can see that his usual bland gaze is edged with something laser sharp. For all that Clint has felt Coulson's eyes on him over the years, he's never actually caught Coulson staring at him before. The pressure of his regard is like a physical thing. 

Clint's muscles tense. He wants to run. He can see that Coulson's waiting for it, though, and that makes him take a deep breath instead. He won't give Coulson the satisfaction. Clint steps forward into the room. The door slides closed behind him, and he's alone with Coulson for the first time since Milan. 

Coulson watches him. His gaze doesn't wander, but there's a possessive edge to it now. Clint does his best to meet it without flinching. He's very aware of the bed at Coulson's back. He wonders if Coulson will bother with it or just have him on the floor. He feels sick just thinking about it.

"Your papers have been transferred to me," Coulson says finally, when Clint's not sure how much more tension he can take. "Collect what personal belongings you desire and come with me. You're moving out of the slave quarters this afternoon."

That's not standard procedure. Clint blinks and looks around the room. It's spartan, with no obvious personal touch. "I don't have anything here besides my S.H.I.E.L.D. issued clothes and my bow, and that's locked in the armoury. Why am I leaving my quarters?"

Something flickers behind Coulson's eyes. "Because I said so," he tells him, still in that deceptively level tone of voice. "Collect your clothing, then. Oh, and don't forget this." He holds out the fossilized arrowhead Clint usually keeps hidden behind the loose baseboard on the eastern wall. "I wouldn't want you to forget it."

Clint swallows. Coulson must have gone through his quarters with alarming thoroughness to find his one treasured possession. His hands want to shake as he reaches out to take fossil. He doesn't let them. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Coulson doesn't say anything as Clint collects what he owns, which is basically his uniform and an extra pair of boots. He packs everything into the duffel bag Coulson's brought with him and then waits in the corridor while Coulson uses his passcode to reset the locks. Clint's quarters are once again generic rooms at S.H.I.E.L.D. The cleaning team will be by within the hour to remove any last trace of Clint's presence.

The arrowhead feels like a weight in his palm. Clint has never slept anywhere except the slave quarters before. They'd been impersonal, but they'd been his. Clint will have nothing to himself when he gets to wherever Coulson is taking him. He almost wants to throw the arrowhead away, because it's the last thing he has that's his, and Clint knows it's going to hurt to have it taken from him.

He can't make himself drop it, though. The arrowhead was given to him by his brother the week before their parents died, before the circus found them, before Clint was sold. It's the last connection he has to what he was before, even if he was only six at the time. 

Hating himself and his weakness, Clint slips the arrowhead inside his pocket. Coulson's given it back to him. He might as well keep it for now. 

Coulson leads him away from the slave quarters and down three levels to the ultra-secure senior agents' wing inside of S.H.I.E.L.D. He has to pause at various locations to add Clint's biometric data to the scanners, though Clint understands from the signs that several areas will still be off-limits unless he's accompanied by Coulson himself. 

The entire area is very different than the slave quarters upstairs. There are paintings on the concrete walls and the carpet is both thick and lush. Clint can see several recreation rooms where senior agents sit, relaxing in front of a TV. S.H.I.E.L.D. may be sequestered inside of an underground bunker, but it's clear that here, at least, there is an effort being made to keep things comfortable.

Clint hates it. At least the slave quarters had been honest. 

Coulson's quarters, when they arrive, are the biggest Clint's ever seen. He steps inside and takes a careful look around. There's a mini-kitchen, a living room, a flat-screen TV and a DVR with a blue-ray player. There's a door through which Clint presumes is Coulson's bedroom. The bathroom is probably an en-suite. The colours are muted, but serene. It's actually not that bad. The only problem is that there is absolutely nowhere for him to sleep. Most homes come with slave quarters attached, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has always kept the slave division separate. Clint eyes the couch and wonders if he'll be so lucky. It actually looks nicer than the bed he left three floors up.

Behind him, Coulson steps into the apartment. The door slides shut behind them and locks with a subtle _click_. Clint swallows and knows that he's visibly tense. Of course Coulson is behind him. This is why he's here, after all. There's no chance Clint's sleeping on the couch.

"Does it meet with your satisfaction?" Coulson asks. There's something amused in his tone.

"It's very nice, sir," Clint manages around his clenched jaw, because what the hell else is he going to say? He wants to look over his shoulder, but doesn't dare. Even though he knows what's coming, it's easier not to look it in the face.

Surprisingly, Coulson steps away from the door and moves towards the kitchen. Clint watches him, wondering what's going on. He would have thought they'd be in the bedroom by now, or maybe on the floor. Instead, Coulson seems intent on giving him the five dollar tour. 

"Pots and pans are under the counter," Coulson says, waving a hand towards the cupboards. "Plates and such are on top. Utensils are in the drawer, garbage under the sink. You have unrestricted access to anything in the apartment, but please do not burn the building down trying to cook eggs. There is still a cafeteria, after all."

Clint nods and memorizes the layout of the kitchen with the instincts of long practice. What the hell is Coulson trying to accomplish? He'd better not be telling Clint that he's responsible for making meals. Clint's never cooked a day in his life since the circus, and he doesn't think Coulson will appreciate watered-down gumbo five days in a row. 

"You can sit and try to figure out the TV if you want," Coulson goes on, turning towards his bedroom. "I'm going to shower and get out of these clothes. Make yourself comfortable."

Clint nods again, even though he doesn't believe it. Coulson actually leaves the room and goes into his bedroom, though, all without demanding that Clint follow him. Clint waits until he hears the shower start to run, and then for a minute afterwards.

Coulson doesn't reappear.

Clint swallows and looks again around the apartment. This is going to be his home now, apparently. He wonders how much longer he'll be alive to appreciate it, or how sane, then banishes that thought from his mind. He can't think like that. He can get through this, just like he can get through anything. He's always known that one day it would come to this. He's known since Milan. That's not important now. It's still better than the streets ever were.

It's a comfortable place to end in, at least. The door is the only exit and there are no windows this far underground, but there is artwork on the walls. One piece is a framed recruitment poster from the nineteen-forties featuring Captain America, and another is a painting of a seascape with a tallship in the distance. There's a shelf full of novels and what looks like comic books along one wall. Clint glances over the spines and recognizes both English and Japanese. He wants to flip through them, but Coulson had said to turn on the TV, so that's what he'd better do.

He drops the duffel bag next to the couch and sits down. It's comfortable. He _really_ wouldn't object to sleeping here tonight. He snorts. Like that's going to happen.

Clint tries to figure out how to turn on the TV. There are several different types of remotes sitting on the coffee table and it takes him a minute to figure out which one is for what. He finally hits the appropriate power button and finds the Guide channel, then pauses, wondering what Coulson would want him to watch.

If it was Sitwell who had brought him home, Clint knows he'd choose the most obnoxious programme available. Clint doesn't want to piss Coulson off, though. Coulson scares the shit out of him.

He knows that means he's already broken. Clint has managed to keep himself distanced from every other handler he's been given to at S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson has always been different, though. Clint knows it's stupid to try and argue that now. 

Clint swallows and flips through the TV guide. He finds a Captain America cartoon from the eighties, glances back to the poster on the wall, and turns it on. 

 

*

 

Phil takes his time in the shower. The impulse to hurry is strong, but he wants to project the illusion of perfect control. He counts to one hundred, washes his hair, and counts again. When he judges it has been enough time, he finally lets himself acknowledge that he has Clint Barton waiting for him in his living room. He fists one hand around his cock and comes with his next breath.

Clint Barton. Phil ducks his head under the spray and smiles. 

He's always known that Nick would honour his word. He said he would gift Clint to Phil, and he has. Phil had honestly expected it would take longer than this, though. Another six months, at least, possibly another year. Clint's been self-destructing since before he came to S.H.I.E.L.D., but it's been a slow burn. He's run through handler after handler, has accumulated more black marks than any one asset should and still be alive. Phil's been waiting for him to run the gauntlet of senior agents and end up as his problem to solve. He's been waiting very patiently for that day.

Something has sped up the timeline. Either Clint's disobedience is becoming an irredeemable liability in the field, or Nick wants him ready sooner than Phil had thought. Possibly both. 

Phil knows what Nick is hoping for. The team he wants to build is impressive. Clint may be an important part of that team, but he's not absolutely essential. If Phil can't control him, Nick will order the head shot without second thought. Phil doesn't want that to happen.

He wants Clint Barton for himself. 

The key to having Clint, though, is more than words on a piece of paper. It had taken everything he had not to march down to Medical and demand Clint be released into his care the moment Nick had dismissed him from his office. He spent the past twenty-four hours reviewing his strategy and re-reading Clint's file. He also cleaned his apartment and took down the surveillance pictures he had tacked to his wall.

He wants Clint to be scared of him, of course, but he doesn't want the archer to know quite how far he's wormed his way into Phil's chest. At least, not yet. 

It hadn't taken long to search Clint's quarters, but finding the arrowhead had been a stroke of luck. Phil enjoys keeping Clint off balance, and the wary surprise in Clint's eyes when Phil had held out the treasure had been a delight.

Finally, he judges he's delayed long enough. Phil towels himself dry and dresses in simple sleep pants and a plain grey t-shirt. He lingers over his dresser, savouring the moment, then takes a deep breath and opens his jewelry box. There, sitting alone, is the collar he'd purchased for Clint almost two years ago. He'd left the showers in Milan, caught the scheduled flight home, and then taken a cab to his favourite jewelry store in New York. He'd had the piece commissioned, and had spent a considerable sum on its creation. He's since taken it to R&D and had a few modifications made. 

The collar is thick and heavy, crafted from a beautiful silver alloy, with a nanotech lock. The outside is plain because Clint still does occasional undercover missions, but on the inside is carved _Property of Phil Coulson_. Phil runs his hands over the words and smiles.

He takes the collar in hand and walks out towards the living room. Clint is sitting stiffly on the couch, _Captain America and the Howling Commandos_ playing on TV. Phil smiles. Clint is obviously trying to impress him. He appreciates the effort.

Clint sees him out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't flinch, but he does tense subtly. Phil snaps his fingers and points towards his feet. Clint obediently slides off the couch and falls to his knees, moving with his particular liquid grace. He keeps his eyes appropriately down. Phil approves.

"I have something for you," he says, and smiles when Clint stiffens. He takes the collar from behind his back and shows it to Clint, lifting his chin with one finger and giving him permission to look. Clint doesn't say anything, but his eyes widen as he takes in the obvious expense. Phil shows him the words engraved on the inside before sliding the collar around Clint's neck. The lock fuses at Phil's touch. 

"It has a satellite link, a slow-decay isotope that can be tracked by any S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in the world, and it can never be removed by anyone but myself," Phil tells him, satisfaction in his voice. "You are now mine."

Clint's jaw clenches for a second, before he nods. "Yes, sir."

"Good boy," Phil says, and rewards him by stepping back. Clint's shoulders infinitesimally loosen. "Now make us some popcorn and come sit by my feet on the couch. I like this episode."

 

*

 

There is no microwave popcorn, but Clint finds some loose kernels and a well-used popcorn maker over the stove. He reads the instructions while Coulson watches TV, twitching every time he hears a creak from the couch. Coulson stays firmly on the other side of the room, though, and doesn't use the opportunity to crowd Clint against the counter and molest him. Clint doesn't understand.

He's distracted by his worry and adds too much butter, then tries to compensate by doubling the salt. In the end, he makes triple the amount of popcorn he was going to, and hopes that Coulson won't beat him for wasting food.

He brings the over-full bowl back to the couch and sits as instructed at Coulson's feet. He dips his head in a gesture of submission, his new collar digging into the still-healing skin of his neck. The piece is a work of art, heavier than most of the collars Clint's worn. He can feel the entire ring of it encircling his neck. There isn't even a seam. It's nanotech, obviously. He wonders if there are heat sensors embedded in the words pressing into his skin. He would swear that the letters burn. 

Coulson tries the popcorn, popping a few kernels in his mouth, and Clint tenses. After a moment, though, Coulson smiles. Clint finds himself relaxing. He did good, then. He's glad. He's terrified to think of what Coulson might consider appropriate punishment if he'd failed. 

Coulson eats about a third of the popcorn in silence, then looks down to where Clint is kneeling. "This is delicious," he says. "Do you want to try some?" 

Clint swallows. He isn't sure what Coulson is playing at. Coulson just looks at him, though, as if he's honestly waiting for Clint to answer. Clint debates saying no, but just then his stomach gives a lurch and an audible growl. 

Coulson smiles. Clint clears his throat. "Yes, sir."

"All right then," Coulson says, taking a few kernels in hand. "Here."

Clint looks at him warily, but Coulson just waits. Slowly, Clint opens his mouth. Coulson gives him several pieces of popcorn and watches while Clint chews. He's never been fed before. The sensation is an odd one. The popcorn is good, though, buttery and salty, and fucking delicious. 

"More?" Coulson asks. His voice is low and pleased, but also obviously turned on. Clint swallows, but nothing happens. Coulson is still looking at him, but he's been doing that all afternoon. It's nothing new.

"I said, would you like some more?" Coulson repeats.

He doesn't sound upset that he's had to repeat himself, but Clint knows better than to assume. He nods warily in answer to Coulson's question. Coulson smiles and feeds him some more. 

They finish the entire bowl that way, Coulson taking a handful at a time and feeding Clint about half. Clint stays tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing happens. Coulson is careful not to touch him even when feeding him, and he doesn't do anything else. When the bowl is empty, Coulson settles back on the couch with a satisfied sigh, and goes back to watching cartoons. Clint tries to do the same.

 

*

 

By the time Coulson stands and stretches, Clint knows that it's late. He's having a hard time keeping his eyes open and his back is starting to burn. He thinks of that bitch Natasha and scowls. 

“It's time to sleep now,” Coulson says. “Come on.” He clicks his fingers.

Clint feels like a dog, but he follows. It seems unfair that Coulson would wait until now to order him to bed. He's sore and exhausted, but maybe Coulson likes that. Maybe that gets him off. 

Coulson leads him to the bedroom. It's larger, almost double the size of his slave quarters three floors up. The bed is huge, probably a queen-size, and there's a low double-dresser with drawers. There's a closet that Clint bets is full of suits and a weapons safe built into one wall. The walls are painted a soothing blue and there's no artwork in here. One large mirror hangs above the dresser, though. There's another door along the left-hand wall that's been left half-open. Beyond it, Clint can see a full-sized bath. 

Coulson walks to the dresser and pulls out a pair of pyjamas, dark grey and soft. He hands them to Clint and then goes into the bathroom alone. Clint changes as quickly as he can, determined not to let Coulson see him naked until he can help it. They're in the bedroom alone together – Clint knows what will happen next. He feels sick to his stomach, but tries to keep his popcorn down. Vomiting on Coulson's bed would only delay things.

He's not sure what to do with his dirty clothes, so he just holds them in his arms until Coulson comes out of the bathroom.

"In the hamper there, please," Coulson says, indicating the basket by the wall. "The bathroom is yours, if you want it."

Clint's almost too nervous to piss, but he makes himself go through the ritual of getting ready for bed. He washes his hands and finds a new toothbrush waiting by the sink, bright purple and still in its packaging. There's a sticky note on it with his name written in block letters. It makes Clint raise his eyebrows until he realizes that if Coulson has gone to the trouble of customizing him a collar, it would have been pretty easy for him to get Clint a toothbrush. He finishes his ablutions, takes a deep breath, and then steps as calmly as he can back into the bedroom.

Coulson's already in bed. "At my feet, please," he says in a sleepy voice.

Clint blinks, but does as he says. He climbs onto the bed and settles at Coulson's feet. The mattress isn't quite long enough for him to stretch out on, but it's plenty big. There's a throw cover he can use to keep warm, and the mattress is soft enough that he doesn't even need a pillow. Clint's never slept on anything so comfortable before. It puts even the couch to shame. 

"Sleep well, Clint," Coulson says. He flicks a hand and the lights around the apartment dim. The bedroom is cast into shadow.

Clint tenses, but nothing happens. After a few minutes, Coulson's breathing evens out into sleep. He could be faking, but Clint would have to turn his head to make sure. He's not willing to do that just yet. He waits.

An hour creeps by, and then another. Coulson shifts a few times and turns over in bed, but otherwise doesn't move. Clint has yet to relax. He's exhausted and his back is burning, but he knows this can't be it. Coulson's probably biding his time, luring Clint into a false sense of security. He _knows_ that Coulson wants him, has known it since the op in Milan. Coulson has gone through all this trouble to get him. He finally has Clint in his bed, and all he's going to do is sleep?

It _can't_ be this easy. Clint finds himself eyeing the exits.

This has to be a test, he decides. Maybe Coulson wants him to try and make a break for it. Clint's not going to give him the satisfaction. He's already made the decision to stick with S.H.I.E.L.D., even if and until they kill him. A bullet to the back of the head is better than anything he'd get from the gangs on the streets, and an escaped slave doesn't have a lot of other options on the outside. That's if he could even get away, and Clint isn't stupid – he made note of the security in the senior agents' wing. It's nothing to sneeze at. The collar around his throat is another factor he has to consider. 

No, he's not going to run. Coulson's obviously playing some sort of game, but Clint can deal with that. He knows how it will end. It always ends the same way.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. He's going to need his strength.

 

*

 

Clint manages a few hours of sleep. Every time Coulson moves or twitches, Clint wakes up. His heart pounds, but Coulson just resettles and falls back asleep. Clint lays in the dark and tries to do the same. It's not exactly restful.

For all of that, Clint's back still feels remarkably better by the morning. Coulson's mattress is the most comfortable thing Clint's ever slept on. The lights in the apartment come on, soft but bright. Coulson makes a noise, yawns, and then rolls out of bed. He walks to the bathroom without a backwards glance. 

Clint stretches as Coulson showers, ironing out the last remaining kinks, and then pads his way over to the kitchen. He's starving. He opens a cupboard and looks over the supplies, then glances guiltily towards the bathroom where he can hear the shower running. 

Is he allowed to take food for himself? He hadn't managed to get dinner before Coulson removed him from the slave quarters, and popcorn isn't exactly filling. 

He sees a box of Pop-Tarts and debates taking one. He knows what Woo would do if he caught Clint stealing food, and he knows what Patel or Sitwell would do. He doesn't have a clue how Coulson would react, though. Clint wonders if he's hungry enough to find out.

The shower shuts off, and Clint jumps. He shuts the cupboard door and steps back, deciding that no, he's not that hungry, after all. 

There's a loaf of bread by the toaster. Clint checks the fridge and finds a carton of eggs. Maybe he could make Coulson breakfast. It would be like an apology for the thing he almost tried to do, even though there is no way Coulson could know that Clint was thinking of taking food without asking. Clint checks for a frying pan, wiping his sweaty hands against his legs. He's not used to feeling like this, he's never had a handler who terrified him like this before. He's got to get a grip on himself. 

Breakfast. He can make breakfast. It's cooked eggs on toast, how hard could it be?

By the time Coulson finishes in the bedroom and steps into the kitchen, Clint has lined up his ingredients and heated a frying pan. Coulson is dressed in a pair of of casual sweatpants and an Army Rangers t-shirt that looks as if it's been well loved. He eyes the eggs Clint's assembled on the counter.

"Um," Clint says into the silence. "Breakfast?"

“Do you actually know how to _make_ breakfast?" Coulson asks. He sounds amused.

“It can't be that difficult,” Clint argues, before he can think better of it. He stops and swallows. “I mean. I can learn, if you want me to. Sir.”

"I don't doubt it," Coulson replies, smiling slightly, "but why don't you let me cook instead, and you can take a shower."

It's not a question, but it still sounds like a request. Clint stares at him. "That's not how things usually work."

Coulson's expression doesn't change. "I like to take care of my things, not poison them on their first day. Call it a quirk."

Clint doesn't have anything to say to that, so he reluctantly hands over the pan. Coulson takes it and shoos Clint off towards the bathroom. "I meant it – go shower. I'll make breakfast."

The shower is like nothing Clint's ever experienced before. It's clearly luxury level – the water pressure is perfect, there's a button to adjust the type of spray, and the hot water never starts to cool. He doesn't even mind the sting on his back. There's a bright purple loofah wrapped in plastic that's obviously meant for him, and a new bottle of shower gel standing beside it.

Clint doesn't recognize the brand, but it smells good when he opens the lid and takes a whiff. Clean and earthy, and Coulson must want him to wear it. He scrubs himself down. It's kind of nice, actually. Way better than the stuff he'd had to use in the slave quarters.

Clint tries not to linger in the shower, but it's hard to turn off that perfect water pressure and step out into the cold. He reaches for a towel and is unsurprised to find that they are softer and fluffier than any towel Clint's ever used before. 

He wonders if Coulson is trying to win him over with luxury, and then wonders why he would bother. He owns Clint now. He doesn't have to treat him this nice.

Clint's clothes are still in his duffel bag, but when he walks out of the bathroom there's a new outfit waiting for him on Coulson's bed. It's a pair of black cargo pants and a soft grey t-shirt, along with a pair of simple, black cotton briefs and socks. Clint hesitates, but there's nothing to be gained by refusing to wear them. He drops the towel and drags on the clothes. They fit perfectly. The quality is, once again, substantially higher than anything he's ever worn before.

He wonders how much Coulson has spent on him so far. It's a dizzying amount, surely more than Clint is worth. He's in his thirties, has one skill, and has a long record of disobedience. If Coulson had wanted a personal slave to live with him and see to his needs, he could have purchased someone for far less than he's already spent on Clint. 

No, Coulson wants _him_. Clint wonders if it's just for the pleasure of breaking him. The thought makes his teeth clench. Clint shoves it to the back of his mind and walks back to the kitchen.

Coulson's standing by the stove. He turns when Clint comes out, flipping the last of the over-easy eggs onto a piece of toast. His eyes linger on Clint's chest, a smirk ghosting over his face. 

Clint tenses, but Coulson just meets his eyes. "I'm glad the clothes fit," he says. "Could you get us each a cup of coffee, please?"

Well, he gets coffee at least. "Sure," Clint says. "Milk and sugar?" 

"One of each," Coulson informs him, and Clint busies himself at the counter while Coulson sets the table. He puts his food on a placemat and drops a kneeling pillow onto the floor. Clint wars with himself for a second, but he's kneeled for Coulson once already. The pillow means there's a good chance he'll get to eat, and Clint is so hungry, his stomach feels like it's trying to devour itself. 

It's been a long time since he's gone hungry. He's gotten soft.

Clint takes his place on the cushion while Coulson breaks the egg on his piece of toast and cuts it into squares.

He takes the first bite himself, then offers one to Clint. Clint licks his lips, but takes the food. It tastes delicious. “This is good.”

Coulson smiles. “I'm glad you like it.”

They eat in silence for several minutes, sharing four pieces of eggs and toast, and Coulson lets Clint hold his own cup of coffee. The food is good, and Clint figures Coulson must have used real butter.

"I'm going to need to spend more time in the gym, if you're going to keep feeding me like this," Clint says when the coffee's done. It's a warning more to himself than to Coulson. He can't afford to let his guard down. 

Coulson gives him a small smile. "You need the calories now, you're still recovering. I suppose I should dial back my impulse to spoil you, though. It's a bad habit to get into."

Clint manages to summons a grin. "I like being spoiled."

Coulson actually laughs. "Who doesn't?" he asks. Clint blinks. Coulson sounds like he's comparing Clint to an actual person and not just thinking of him as a slave. "Come on," Coulson says, standing up from his chair and walking towards the sink. "We'll do the dishes and then we can ask Doctor Holub if you're cleared enough for some light exercise at the gym. I wouldn't mind a stretch myself."

Clint scrambles to his feet. "We've already showered, though."

Coulson shrugs. "You're not in the slave quarters, anymore. There's no water restriction for senior agents."

Clint can feel his eyes glaze over at the thought of experiencing that delicious shower twice a day. 

Coulson sees it and chuckles. "You wash," he says, pointing to the sink. "I'll dry."

It's a strange mix of equality and subservience. Coulson doesn't seem to fit into a neat little box. He obviously feels that Clint belongs to him, and by the right of law, he does. Coulson's not ashamed about it, and obviously relishes certain areas of his control. The collar is evidence of that, as is making Clint kneel at his feet when they eat. 

He seems to think of Clint as a person, though, even if he is a slave. They find Doctor Holub after doing the dishes and Coulson encourages him to declare Clint fit for light duty, saying that he has Nick Fury's personal promise that they'll be off active missions for the next month. Holub says Clint can have five minutes a day with his bow, which isn't nearly long enough, but that he can run on the treadmills for a quarter of an hour and complete a light stretching routine as well. 

Clint can't help but grin throughout the exercise – S.H.I.E.L.D. maintains an excellent gymnasium for field-active slaves, but it's got nothing on the senior agents' personal equipment. Clint's not allowed to be in here without Coulson, of course, so he enjoys the plush mats and well-oiled equipment while he can. 

Coulson runs on the treadmill next to him and then for a few minutes afterwards, when Clint's machine stops after the allotted time. Clint switches to stretches designed to be gentle on his back and limbers up his fingers, and Coulson moves onto the weights. 

He's obviously taking it easy, not pushing himself too hard, but Coulson's strong. Clint wonders for a minute what it would be like to spar with him on the practice mat, before banishing the image from his mind. Senior agents don't spar with slaves. 

Clint finishes his stretches and reaches for his bow. Coulson had retrieved it for him from the weapons locker before they got changed, and ordered the computer to set up the range for bow work. The range is smaller than what Clint's used to working on. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been good about fostering his marksmanship skills and had built what was basically a custom-designed range in the slave quarters. This range isn't nearly so complex, but it's enough for the five minutes he's being allowed today. 

It feels good to hold his bow. Too good. Clint knows this is a point of weakness for him, has had other handlers who've used it against him. Natasha once ambushed him and left him hanging from a piece of rope by the ceiling scant inches above his bow where it lay on the floor beneath him. That had stung.

Coulson doesn't seem to be that type, though. He watches from across the gym as Clint checks his baby over, making sure every part of her is perfect. He can feel Coulson's eyes on him, but for once he doesn't mind. He's used to people staring at him when he has his bow. 

After confirming that everything's good, Clint concentrates on his targets. It's a simple set up for today, but he's not about to completely waste his five minutes. He settles his breathing and reaches for his first arrow. He starts the clock.

Clint tries to beat his record for number of arrows fired in a five minute period. He doesn't expect to actually do it, not coming off an injury and without more of a warm up beforehand, but he'd stretched as much as he was able to and he doesn't do too badly, after all. 

Coulson is waiting when the timer reaches five and Clint, breathing hard, finally lowers his bow. His gaze is hot, but also proud. "Well done."

Clint grins. He knows that he's good, but he's never had a handler say it before. "Thank you, sir."

"You should put that down before Holub runs in shouting, though. You know his order of 'five minutes' was not intended as a challenge."

Clint shrugs but does as Coulson says. He de-strings his baby and wipes her down before placing her back in her case. "He should have been more clear, then."

"A suggestion I'm going to have to keep in mind," Coulson murmurs before stepping back to his weight routine. 

Clint knows he probably overdid it a little, so he uses the remaining time Coulson spends working out to stretch his muscles again. He believes Coulson when he says they won't be on active missions for a month. Fury wouldn't have any reason to lie to him, and Coulson has no reason to lie to Clint. Clint's an asset, after all. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. is what he does, and if they haven't decided to kill him, then they're going to make sure he's fit to work. 

After the gym, Coulson leads the way back to his apartment and takes the first shower. Clint busies himself in the apartment by putting the clothes from his duffel bag into the drawer Coulson's cleared out for him in the dresser. He hears Coulson move about the bathroom, and doesn't think much of it when the shower shuts off.

His guard is down enough that he doesn't immediately look up when the bathroom door opens. The sound of running water takes him by surprise. Clint finally glances over to see Coulson kneeling by the tub. He has the faucet running and is pouring sweet-smelling bubble soap into the bath. Coulson is wearing his sleep pants and a soft-looking t-shirt. Clint hesitates to stand from where he's crouching over his clothes. He doesn't understand.

"Come here, please," Coulson says, and Clint knows he can't disobey. He swallows past his nerves and walks the few feet necessary to the bathroom door. Coulson doesn't look over at him, but concentrates on agitating the bubbles inside the bath. "Strip."

Clint realizes that his hands are shaking as he peels the sweaty t-shirt over his head. He tries to make them stop the way he always can on an op, but none of his usual tricks seem to work. 

Coulson finally finishes with the bubbles and sits back on his heels. His eyes go to Clint's face, and while they glance over the rest of him, he doesn't linger. "Everything off."

Clint takes a deep breath and does as he says. He drops his pants and underwear, and flushes to stand naked before Coulson's watchful gaze. Coulson doesn't make a move towards him, though Clint can see his pupils dilate. Coulson just nods at the tub. "Get in."

The water is hot, but not unbearably so. It would actually feel kind of nice if Clint weren't so tense. The bubbles smell good and the water is sort of silky. Clint's never had a bubble bath before.

"Lie back," Coulson murmurs, and Clint does. The back of the tub is sloped subtly, and Coulson puts a towel behind his head. Clint swallows and forces himself to relax, staring at the ceiling and the little beads of condensation that remain from Coulson's shower.

Coulson takes a plastic cup from the sink and scoops up warm water, pouring it over Clint's chest. The cup is purple, and the water warms all the places the bubbles don't quite reach. Coulson holds Clint's fringe away from his eyes and pours water over his head, sluicing away the sweat and not seeming to care that he's getting the towel underneath Clint's head soaked. After a few minutes, Coulson shifts to the end of the tub and takes one of Clint's feet from where he's braced them against the tub. He has a jar of some kind of scrub in his hands and he carefully, gently, rubs it into the heel of Clint's sole.

The foot rub feels _fantastic_. Clint can't help but groan as Coulson uses his strong thumbs to massage his heel. He has no idea what's going on here, but right this second, he doesn't care. 

Coulson doesn't react visibly to the sound, but Clint can feel the difference in his fingers, the way his hand digs that little bit deeper into Clint's skin. For once, he doesn't mind. 

This is amazing. Maybe the eventual fucking won't be so bad, if Coulson's going to treat him like this. 

Clint blanches. He did _not_ just think that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He's obviously gone tense, but Coulson doesn't say anything. He just keep digging at Clint's heel, adds a little more scrub, and digs some more.

Clint can't help it. The foot rub feels so _good_. He swallows his nausea and enjoys it. When Coulson puts Clint's right foot down and picks up the left one, Clint has to bite his lip to keep the sounds inside. 

Coulson seems to hear it anyway, because he glances up to meet Clint's eyes and smiles. 

Fuck. Clint meets that gaze and knows that he's blushing. His eyes are giving everything away. Coulson is going to know how easy he is, now. He's going to press his advantage while he can.

Clint doesn't know if he'll stop him.

He waits, corkscrewing between anticipation and terror, but nothing happens. Coulson finishes Clint's left foot, puts it down back inside the bath, and then pours more warm water over Clint's chest. After a moment he nudges Clint up. “Lean forward, please.”

Clint swallows and does as he's told. Coulson pours water over his head, then takes the shampoo and lathers some into Clint's hair. His fingers feel even better on Clint's scalp than they had on his feet.

Stay strong. He has to stay strong. Clint's not sure what he's fighting for anymore, but at least part of it is sanity. 

Coulson rinses his hair, and repeats the procedure with the conditioner. Afterwards, he tilts Clint's chin up with one finger and meets his eyes. "Ready to get out?"

There is _heat_ and _want_ and _ownership_ in those eyes, but there is also honesty and fondness and truth. Clint swallows his instinctual contrary response and just nods. Coulson helps him out of the bath. 

He's naked, obviously. Clint flushes. It's silly to be embarrassed about a little skin when Coulson's already had his hands on him in such an intimate way, but he is anyway. Thankfully, Coulson bundles him into a warm, soft towel before Clint can think too much about it. 

Coulson leads him back to his room. Clint looks at the bed and wonders if this is it, if he's going to get fucked now. His heart picks up, rabbit-quick.

Coulson doesn't fuck him, though. He just towels Clint off, paying close attention to every inch of his skin. He lingers for a moment over Clint's groin, just enough for Clint to know that despite his patience, Coulson is still very much interested in him in that way. He doesn't do more than get him dry, though, and Clint is left confused but thankful at the end. 

"Come out when you're ready," Coulson murmurs when he's done. "I'm going to order dinner in from the cafeteria."

Clint closes his eyes as soon as Coulson leaves, feeling achy and grateful and unsettled and _wanting_ , Jesus Christ. His dick is even a little hard, not quite half-way but nearly there. Clint ignores it and drops the towel. He slides on the sleep clothes Coulson had given him the night before and absolutely does not find the soft cotton comforting. 

Not at all.

Clint straightens his shoulders before walking back into the main apartment. Coulson is sitting in front of the TV, flipping through the channel guide. He looks over his shoulder when Clint comes in. "More cartoons?"

Clint shrugs and hesitates for just a second before sinking to his knees at Coulson's feet. He knows it's what Coulson wants. “Whatever you like, sir.”

“Hmm,” Coulson says, and flips to something that looks like a historical documentary about the pyramids. "Maybe something a little different." 

The program is actually sort of interesting. Clint's just getting into it when Coulson's hand comes up to rest on Clint's head. He stiffens. Clint's still sitting between Coulson's knees. It would be so easy for Coulson to push Clint's head down into his lap.

Clint can imagine it. Coulson would pull his cock out and push Clint's face into it. Clint wouldn't have a choice except to take it into his mouth. It would be hot. Full. Clint might choke on it.

Coulson doesn't do that. Instead, he flexes his fingers in Clint's hair, scratching his nails over Clint's scalp. Clint lets go of the mix of anticipation and fear the thought of sucking Coulson's cock brings out in him. This, right here, feels _fantastic_. There is no doubt or second guessing. Clint never knew his scalp could be so sensitive. His shoulders twitch and he groans. 

Coulson chuckles, but Clint's almost too boneless to care. He doesn't even realize that he's leaning sideways into Coulson's hand until his chin catches on Coulson's thigh. Coulson doesn't do anything but continue to scratch at Clint's head, though, so Clint gives up and enjoys it. 

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but he's exhausted. He's had two full meals and worked out today, he's had a bath and he's wearing comfortable clothes, and oh god. This, right here, might be heaven.

Clint comes to when the door chimes quietly. Coulson shifts on the couch.

"Dinner is here," Coulson says, apologetically. Clint blinks. Coulson shifts him off his lap and stands up, walking to the door and opening it, taking the plastic bag from the man delivering their food. He says something and shuts the door, and a hot and spicy smell fills the room.

Coulson carries the take-out containers back to the couch, retrieving a set of chopsticks from the drawer. "I hope you like Thai," he says as he hands Clint a container. Clint opens it to find hot and sour beef. It's his favourite. 

"Mm," he says, feeling a little more awake, and digs in. They eat in silence while the documentary drones on. Clint's lost the thread of it now, but it's still interesting.

Coulson doesn't linger after dinner. He collects their take-out boxes and throws them into the trash while Clint rinses their chopsticks and replaces them in the drawer. Coulson turns off the TV and leads them back to the bedroom. It's still early, but Clint doesn't protest. He curls up on the bottom of Coulson's bed and sighs when Coulson tucks the blanket in around him. 

"Sleep," Coulson says. His voice is fond.

Clint knows he should be wary again, but he can't bring himself to the state of hyper-alertness he existed in last night. He closes his eyes and feels the softness of the blanket Coulson has dropped over him. He sleeps.

 

*

 

The next day they head to the gym in the morning, before they shower, and Clint doesn't get invited to the bath afterwards. Coulson still finds a way to touch him, though. This time it's when they're sitting down to eat – he takes Clint's wrist before he can flinch away to guide him to the kneeling pillow at his feet.

The third day it starts as a hand to the small of his back as they walk into the kitchen, but it ends as a head scratch when they're watching TV at night.

Clint starts expecting them, the small touches. He even looks forward to them. They feel casually proprietary, safe. Coulson never allows his hands to stray. Clint doesn't know whether he wants them to. He finds himself wishing Coulson would just hurry up and get it over with. He obviously wants to fuck Clint. He looks at Clint living in his apartment, kneeling on his cushions and sleeping on his bed, and he smiles this hot, self-satisfied smile. Clint can see, when he does, that he's hard.

He never does anything about it, though. Even when Clint finds himself getting nervous if more than a few hours go by without Coulson touching him, Coulson still keeps his hands light. He doesn't jerk off in bed, either. Clint doesn't know if he relieves himself in the shower, but he suspects not. The tension between them is ratcheting higher, but at the same time, Clint knows that he's relaxing into this space. Coulson keeps feeding him, keeps letting him sleep in, keeps giving him access to unrestricted hot water, and it's good. It's _so_ good. Clint doesn't know if he could give this up.

It's an insidious kind of dependence. 

It's obviously what Coulson is going for. Clint feels powerless to stop it. 

A week passes. Clint doesn't get called in for a mission and his back feels incredible – he's starting to push himself at the range and that feels good, too. Coulson goes with him to the gym and supervises, coordinating with Medical to make sure he doesn't overdo it. It's thoughtful and invasive at the same time.

Clint's used to being on his own. He's used to living in the slave quarters and going out on missions, and then coming home to scant praise if he's good or hard beatings if he isn't. Living with Coulson is none of that. Clint starts to wonder if this is what Natasha's life is like. He wonders if half of their animosity is jealousy.

He's not sure who might be jealous of what. 

Clint keeps expecting Coulson to leave for a day and go to his office. Clint may be on medical leave, but Coulson isn't. He never does, though. He has a work briefcase at his apartment, but he never opens it. It seems Fury has given him some time off. 

Clint's not sure how long this siesta is supposed to last, but the day Coulson's phone chimes with a notification – about ten days after he'd brought Clint home – Coulson curses. It seems he wasn't expected to get called in quite yet.

“I have to go into the office,” Coulson tells him, holding up his phone. “I know we were planning to add some distance at the range today, but it will have to wait.”

Clint makes a face. “Can't I go without you? You could drop me off at the slave section.”

Coulson fixes him with a look. “Clint, what do you think would happen if I dropped you off at the slave section?”

“I would...” Clint starts, but then trails off. He wants to say that he'd hang out in the range and relax for a while, enjoy the time away from Coulson and the need to always be on his toes. He could catch up with Sam, maybe, except... no.

“Shit,” Clint sighs. 

Coulson smiles.

Clint hates him all over again. Of course he can't go hang out in the slave quarters any more. His status has changed. 

“They'll hate me,” Clint says. “I'm like Natasha, now.”

Coulson nods. “You're a personal slave. You have more food, better quarters, and the ear of a senior agent if you have any complaints. You could ask me for their heads and I could deliver them to you.”

Clint glares at him. “You wouldn't, though.”

Coulson doesn't say anything.

Clint scowls. “Fine,” Clint says finally, when it's clear that Coulson's not going to speak. “So I can't go to the slave quarters. Do I have to come with you to your office and twiddle my thumbs while you work?”

“Yes,” Coulson says, and laughs when Clint growls. “I'll give you my PottsTab to work on,” he promises. “You can download annoying internet games to your heart's content.”

Clint doesn't have a comeback for that, so he follows Coulson out of the apartment. For the first time since he'd arrived, they turn left instead of right down the corridor. They leave the senior agents' wing and Coulson buzzes him up to the upper floors where his office is located. Clint's never been in Coulson's office before – it's more comfortable than Clint would have assumed before he'd lived with the man. 

There's a wooden desk, a top-of-the-line computer, and a reasonable-looking chair. There's also a wall of bookcases and a leather couch. From the crease pattern on the pillows, Clint's willing to bet that Coulson's spent several nights sleeping in his office, probably when the shit was hitting the fan. 

Coulson indicates that Clint should sit, so he commandeers the couch, taking the PottsTab when Coulson offers it to him. It's lighter than it looks, made of a dent-and-scratch resistant polymer, and the only game preloaded on it is Angry Birds. Clint downloads Candy Crush, which he's heard about but never had a chance to play before, and spends the next several hours demolishing the game. He looks up to find Coulson staring at him, lips twitching upwards into a smile, and Clint realizes only then that he's kicked off his boots and is curled up on the end of Coulson's couch.

"Sorry," he says, lowering his feet to the ground. It feels weird to have gotten comfortable in Coulson's office.

"Don't be," Coulson says easily, leaning back and stretching. Clint absolutely does not find himself distracted by the line of his back. "I was just thinking that we should take a break, maybe eat something in the cafeteria. It's almost two."

"It is?" Clint asks, startled, glancing towards the clock. Coulson's right. "Do you want me to go and get you something?"

"We can go together,” Coulson says, standing up from behind his desk and pulling on his suit jacket, which at some point has found its way to the back of the office chair. "I'll show you where the cafeteria is on this floor so you can get me lunch tomorrow, perhaps."

Clint doesn't bother trying to hide his expression. "Will this work take that long?"

"Unfortunately," Coulson answers with a sigh. His office door automatically locks behind him as they step into the corridor. "The asset I brought in from Arizona is settling in nicely, but the FBI is making a fuss. Nick tells me I'm not allowed to burn the entire base to the ground, so I'm being forced to play nice with paperwork."

"Ugh," Clint says. The FBI are dickwards. Clint's run afoul of them before "Is the asset okay?"

Coulson nods. "He's an intelligent man with unique abilities. He's been on the run for some time, and has made a number of difficult enemies. He should soon find life at S.H.I.E.L.D. to be a better alternative than what he was living." Coulson quirks an eyebrow in Clint's direction. "In many ways, his case is not dissimilar to your own."

Clint can't do much except nod – that sounds about right. Something inside of him still balks at the comparison, though.

Coulson must notice, because he laughs. "Don't worry, Clint – this one isn't of personal interest to me. He's a mutant, and has already been assigned to that division. You," he adds with particular emphasis, "are not replaceable."

Clint swallows. He's not relieved by that. He's _not_. "Yes, sir."

"I'd like the special," Coulson tells him with a smile as they reach the cafeteria, "and a slice of lemon pie. Get yourself whatever you like. I'll grab us a table."

Clint nods and joins the line for the cafeteria food. There are several other slaves present, but not many. He gets a few strange looks as he orders food for himself and Coulson. The staff throw a quick glance at Coulson and reassure themselves that Clint's handler is in the room and that Clint's not acting above his station. They hand over his order without complaint.

Clint carries the plates to where Coulson has set up shop. He's taken a table at the far end of the room, and has left Clint the corner seat, giving him a chance to sit with his back to the wall. It's a thoughtful gesture. Clint takes the chair with a smile.

The expression dies when he sees the number of looks being directed their way. Not just junior agents, either, but regular command staff and a half a dozen senior agents. It must be more unusual for a slave to eat here than Clint had realized, because if looks could kill, he's sure he'd be dead. 

He plasters a smirk on his face and scans the room, noting who meets his gaze and who looks away. When he sees Jasper Sitwell, though, Clint blinks. Sitwell looks _furious_.

Clint keeps his focus on the table after that. He doesn't know exactly what Sitwell's game is, but he does know that there's a history between him and Coulson. Clint's never tried to ferret out the story before, always content to know as little about Coulson as possible, but he now realizes that may have been a mistake. 

Sitwell's pissed, but there's nothing he can do to Coulson. Clint, on the other hand, has probably just become target number one.

Great.

Coulson doesn't give any indication that he notices the tension around them. Clint realizes what a dangerous game he's playing, flaunting Clint's presence in the senior agents' wing. There aren't too many agents who could get away with that. Clint's obviously become a symbol of Director Fury's favour. His collar, which he'd grown used to wearing over the past ten days, feels heavy again. Clint bends his head over his food and tries to concentrate on eating. It isn't easy. Sitwell's glare doesn't let up once the entire meal, and by the time they finish, Clint's stomach is tied up in knots. He _knows_ that Sitwell is going to try something. Other agents would wait and plan a strategy, but Sitwell's rash and hot-headed. He's probably betting that Fury would rather retain a proven senior agent than a discipline-challenged fuck-up like Clint.

The problem is, he's probably right.

Coulson finishes his coffee and stands, and Clint surges to his feet. He dumps their trays and tries not to hustle Coulson out of the cafeteria. Coulson throws him a look, but he doesn't dawdle on the way back to his office. They're almost there when Coulson gets a call.

He makes a face but fishes the cell phone out of his pocket. "Yes?" 

Clint tries not to fidget while Coulson listens. He can't help but notice the tension build in Coulson's shoulders. He's become very good at reading Coulson's minute expressions. It's a survival trait. 

"Very well,” Coulson says finally. “I'll be there in five.”

He thumbs off his phone and returns it to his pocket. Someone else might miss the gleam of satisfaction hiding behind his irritated face, but Clint doesn't. He tenses, but Coulson just shoots him a reassuring look.

“I have a meeting to attend. You can wait for me in my office.”

He's moving before Clint can do more than open his mouth, and is gone before Clint can voice his concerns. The meeting must be urgent, then. Whatever's going on, it's obviously more important than Clint is. 

Clint's stomach twists. The corridor around him is empty, but Clint knows what it's like to stand in the middle of enemy territory. He hurries the rest of the way to Coulson's office. Maybe he's wrong and Sitwell will wait before trying anything...

He's not wrong.

Clint's almost back to Coulson's office when a voice stops him. “Stop.”

Clint skids to a halt. He recognizes the voice, but doesn't turn around. "Sitwell."

“That's _Agent_ Sitwell to you, slave,” Sitwell says. “What are you doing here? Did your new master leave you all alone?”

Clint forces himself not to flinch as Sitwell's voice gets closer. He swallows the words that want to come.

"You aren't allowed to be in this area without supervision," Sitwell goes on. There's an edge to his voice. 

"I have permission to walk back to Senior Agent Coulson's office," Clint says, fighting to keep an even tone. He won't give Sitwell the satisfaction of showing that he's afraid. "He gave me specific orders to do so."

"Yeah, but you aren't very good at following orders, are you, Barton? In fact, I don't think anyone would believe you if I said I'd caught you doing something you shouldn't be. Like sneaking out of Woo's office, perhaps?"

Clint feels a chill sweep through his bones. If he were caught doing something like that, not even Coulson would be able to save him. "The video surveillance would bear me out."

"Actually," Sitwell tells him, voice dipping low, "there isn't any video surveillance here. Too much confidential information, you understand." 

He has to be lying. S.H.I.E.L.D. has surveillance _everywhere_ , Clint knows that. Sitwell walks around Clint's left side, staring at him, and Clint fights to keep his gaze forward. He's aware enough of his peripheries to know that there's no one else around. Sitwell doesn't have any backup, and Clint doesn't have any witnesses.

It would be easy to put Sitwell down. He's a senior agent, but Clint's seen him fighting in the ring – Clint's better, faster, and probably stronger, too. He can't take the chance about the surveillance, though. If Sitwell accuses him of breaking into Woo's office, it will be his word against Clint's. The odds of coming out of that alive aren't good, but they're better than if Clint were found attacking a senior agent.

He's well and truly fucked, is the gist of it. Clint clenches his jaw.

Sitwell chuckles. "I could be persuaded to change my story, though. Tell me, Barton, why is Coulson so interested in you? He's had his eye on you for years – everyone knows it. Why? What is it that makes you so special?"

Clint swallows, but doesn't say anything. He honestly doesn't know. 

"Is it your aim? There are plenty of agents out there with good aim. Plenty of slaves, too. Is it your mouth? Does Coulson like them cocky? Or maybe it's something baser." Sitwell spins suddenly and kicks out Clint's knees. Clint falls forward. "Maybe Coulson just likes the way you suck cock. I heard he's into boys."

Clint grits his teeth as Sitwell's hands come up to frame his jaw. He shoves Clint's head down into the crease of his groin. He's not hard, but he's rapidly getting that way. Sitwell's never shown any interest in Clint before, but he must get off on the power of having Coulson's plaything on his knees. Clint pushes back, trying to get away. He has the right to because Sitwell isn't his master, now. Sitwell just socks him.

"You're going to suck my cock, Barton," Sitwell tells him. "You're going to make me come in this hallway right here, and if you try even once to get away I'm going to tell everybody that you're a HYDRA double-agent and that I caught you stealing from Woo. If Coulson comes back and finds you, I'm going to tell him that you liked it and that you begged for it, and watch as he turns on you in disgust."

Clint feels his lunch start to curdle. He doesn't want to see that expression on Coulson's face. He also doesn't know what he'll do without Coulson's protection. Coulson had changed the rules by moving him the senior agents' wing, by elevating him above every other slave except Natasha. Clint's never had friends at S.H.I.E.L.D. before, but now he'll have outright enemies. That's if Fury even lets him live, which is looking less and less likely. 

Maybe he'll give him to Natasha as a gift. Clint shivers.

Sitwell notices and grins. He pops the button on the front of his pants, and pulls out his half-hard cock. He shoves it in Clint's face. "Now – suck."

Clint stares at Sitwell's cock. His jaw is clenched so tight that his teeth are aching, but he consciously tries to relax. He thinks the problem over from every angle, but he can't find a solution that won't end in him getting shot. At least doing what Sitwell wants right now will get him through the next five minutes. After that, he can think of a plan.

He knows it won't end here in this hallway. If Clint does what Sitwell wants, he'll be screwed for life. Probably literally. Sitwell has never shown an interest in fucking him before, but if he gets off on the power of it now, he'll probably change his mind.

Clint feels sick rage curl in his chest, but he opens his mouth to do as Sitwell has asked.

"What's going on here?" 

Clint feels a moment of pure, overwhelming relief, before terror floods him. Coulson's voice is even, but Clint can hear the undertone of icy rage.

"Your boy here was asking for it," Sitwell accuses, sounding oily as fuck. "Got in close and practically demanded that I fuck him, asked to suck my cock first. You ought to keep a better leash on your toys, Coulson. If you can't satisfy them, they'll come running to me."

"Is that so?" Coulson asks. Clint keeps his head bowed and stares at the carpet under his knees, not daring to look up. He feels Coulson's familiar hand on his head, carding through his hair. Where Coulson's touch would once have inspired horror, it now feels like his one safe point in a storm. "Clint, is that what happened?"

Clint licks his lips, not sure what to say. Above him, Sitwell sneers. "He's a slave, Phil. His word isn't good for anything."

"He's a better man that you will ever be, Jasper," Coulson says in that same even tone of voice. The hand on Clint's head remains gentle. "Clint? Stand up, please. We're going back to my quarters now."

"Please?" Sitwell repeats, sounding incredulous. "What, do you say 'thank you,' too?"

Clint rises to his feet, heart thudding in his chest. He keeps his eyes on the ground. 

"You need to show him who's boss, Phil," Sitwell goes on. "Throw him around a little. He likes that."

"I do as I please," Coulson responds.

The edge in his voice is more obvious now, sounding to Clint like a siren, but Sitwell either can't hear it or doesn't care. "Here," he says, stepping forward. "I'll show you."

Clint feels Sitwell's hand land on his arm. It's only there for a second before a shot rings out. 

Clint gapes and looks up to stare. Phil is holding his sidearm, his finger tight around the trigger. Sitwell is screaming on the floor.

“You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch! You _shot me!_ ”

Clint stares at the slowly expanding pool of blood. It's spreading out from Sitwell's leg, oozing onto the carpet. It's going to stain. For some reason, the thought makes him laugh.

Clint clamps his jaw hard before more than a cough can get out. If he starts, he won't be able to stop, because holy shit. Holy _shit!_ Coulson shot Sitwell!

Senior agents do not shoot other senior agents.

Coulson doesn't lower the gun. His voice is arctic cold. "Clint Barton is my personal property. It says so on his collar. I am entitled by law to defend that which is mine."

"I wasn't – fuck! – I wasn't going to do anything to him."

"You were touching him," Coulson says, his words like ice. "That's enough. I'll call Medical to come and collect you. Clint," he says, snapping his fingers, "with me, please."

Clint feels like he's been vaulted into an alternate reality. His feet turn and point him towards Coulson. He follows the senior agent down the corridor, leaving Sitwell cursing and shouting in the hall. They pass Coulson's office and keep on walking, taking the elevator down to the senior agents' wing.

They stop at the door of Coulson's apartment. Clint stands, still in a daze, as Coulson runs his hand over the biometric sensor and disengages the lock. He gestures Clint inside. Clint realizes that Coulson has one hand on the base of his spine. It grounds him, comforts him, and terrifies him all at the same time because Coulson is changing everything, Coulson is changing every rule.

Once they're inside and the door is closed, Coulson turns. Clint tenses, prepared for a blow, but instead Coulson's hands reach up to cup protectively at his face.

"Did he hurt you? Are you okay?" 

Clint feels another laugh bubble up in his chest, but he manages to swallow it and shake his head. "No, sir, he didn't hurt me." He shivers. “He didn't have time, you found me so quick. How did you find me so quickly? I thought – ”

"He might not have hurt you,” Coulson growls, interrupting him, “but he touched you. Tell me exactly where he touched you."

It's possessive as fuck, but that actually makes Clint feel better. "My – my face. He pushed my face into his pants. And my knees. He kicked out my knees so I would kneel on the floor."

Coulson's jaw tightens. His hands are gentle on Clint's cheekbones as he runs his fingers over every bump and dip. Clint relaxes. The touch is feather light and goes a long way to erasing the phantom pressure of Sitwell's hands. 

Clint doesn't even realize that they're moving. Coulson leads him out of the kitchen and through the living area and into his bed. Coulson's hands trail down Clint's jaw, his chin, his neck, tracing over his chest and dipping into the divot of his back. He fists his hands in Clint's shirt and draws it carefully over his head, exposing Clint's skin to the air and Coulson's fingers. Clint's breath hitches as Coulson threads his fingers through Clint's nearly non-existent body hair, running his hands along the flat planes of Clint's chest.

It should feel disgusting, horrifying – Clint usually hates to be touched, to be fondled in such an intimate way. This feels nothing like that, though. It feels instead like Coulson is reassuring himself that Clint is whole, that his property is undamaged.

It's comforting.

Clint's never had anyone care about him like this before. Coulson shot Sitwell for him. Clint's still processing that information.

“He doesn't deserve to touch you,” Coulson murmurs. His hands have wandered lower, fingers moving over Clint's waist. They ghost over the front of Clint's groin. “He had you, Fury gave you to him, and he didn't appreciate you, didn't treat you like you deserve. He doesn't get a second chance. You're mine now.”

Clint shivers. 

Coulson undoes the button of Clint's jeans and pulls the rough fabric down his thighs. Clint lifts his hips to make it easier. “Fury might take me away,” Clint finds himself saying. His voice is a croak, and he doesn't know what scares him more, that Fury would or that he wouldn't. “You shot Sitwell. He could, he might – ”

“He _won't_ ,” Coulson promises. His palms are sure against Clint's skin. “He owes me too much.”

“I don't – I don't understand what you want with me,” Clint confesses. His voice breaks but he doesn't stop. He has to _know_. “Sitwell said... Sitwell said...”

Coulson slides the jeans down the length of Clint's legs and onto the floor. “What did Sitwell say, Clint?”

Clint licks his lips. “Sitwell said that you'd been after me for years.” Part of this he knows.

“Since you joined the organization,” Coulson confirms, folding Clint's jeans and laying them on the floor, “but I made my decision in Milan.”

Clint swallows as Coulson resettles on the bed. “ _Why_?”

Coulson leans over and kisses the skin above his belly button. “Because no one else will treat you the way you deserve. You don't need to be punished, Clint, you need to be cherished. I can give you that.”

Clint shudders. “I don't... I want...”

Coulson kisses him again, this time the skin underneath his belly button. He slides his palms up Clint's thighs and cups his balls gently. Clint can feels the warm of this hands through the cotton of his boxer-briefs. “I'm not someone to be cherished.”

“You are,” Coulson promises. He pulls the elastic of Clint's boxers up and over, exposing his half-hard cock. “You are good and obedient and strong and beautiful.”

Clint lets out a strangled laugh. He lets Coulson pull off his boxer-briefs. “I'm really not.”

“You will be for me,” Coulson promises him. He kisses Clint's belly again. “You want someone to take care of you. You want to be told what to do and to know that those orders are good orders, orders you can obey, orders you _want_ to obey because they will be good for you in the end. You want someone to trust you, and you want someone you can trust in return.”

“I've wanted that since I was eight years old,” Clint gasps. It feels like a truth pulled out of him, the dreams of a little boy long since lost. “They told me to come with them and everything would be okay. They told me they would take care of me. They _lied!_ ”

“Shh, shh, I know they did.” Coulson scoots up in bed and gathers Clint in his arms, hugging him to his chest and petting his arms, his shoulders, his hair. “But I'm here now, and I'm going to take care of you, okay?” 

Clint shakes and Coulson just holds him, pulls him closer. “You're mine,” Coulson whispers in his ear, and it's proprietary and confident, hot and sure. Clint's too relieved to be afraid. “I always take care of things that are mine.”

Clint nods. Coulson's hand start roaming, travelling up Clint's arms, pressing into his sides. 

“I'm going to make you feel good, Clint. Can I make you feel good?”

Clint nods again, swallows. “I want – ”

Coulson kisses his shoulder. “I know, baby. You want to belong to me. You already do, Clint. I'll make sure you never doubt that again.”

Clint licks his lips. He lies back and the sheets are soft. The familiar smell makes it easier to stop and let Coulson take care of him. Coulson has been taking care of him for weeks now, feeding him and bathing him. Clint takes a shuddering breath but Coulson doesn't make him wait for long. In one smooth motion he shifts and straddles Clint with his thighs, pressing his hands into the thick muscle of Clint's shoulders and grounding him.

“I'm here, Clint. I'm never going to leave you alone. I'm never going to abandon you. You're mine, now. Everything is going to be okay.”

Clint hiccups and nods. Coulson smooths one hand down Clint's chest, running the other over his abs and dipping into the hollow of his hips. Coulson's lips follow his fingertips, adding kisses and the hint of teeth. Clint shudders and shakes and Coulson holds him, pressing harder when Clint feels as though he might break apart. 

Coulson spreads Clint's legs and Clint lets him. He wants to watch and yet he doesn't want to watch. When he closes his eyes, though, Coulson is replaced with other figures, other names. So many people have taken Clint and used him, starting when he was eight and growing after that every year. He's never had a choice before. He doesn't really have one now, but he thinks that if he said “stop,” Coulson would stop.

Maybe.

It's more than he's ever had before.

Coulson's fingers are covered in lube and when he breaches Clint, he kisses the skin above Clint's hip and murmurs that it's going to be okay. Clint doesn't quite know what Coulson is going for. People haven't stopped to prep him, before. Usually they just slather lubricant around and push in, and the pain of it is only half of what Clint doesn't like.

The other half is the invasion, the loss of that last vestige of privacy and self. Everything is different with Coulson, though. He takes the time to stretch Clint, adding more lube when Clint can't hold the whimpers back, and he seems intent on making it less awful than it's been in the past.

Clint isn't hard, though, and he doesn't think he can get that way, but then Coulson's fingers find something deep inside of him and oh god, it's like lightening is shooting from his fingertips. 

Clint arches his back, gasping, and Coulson just smiles from his place between Clint's legs. “You like that, don't you? Good. I didn't think anyone had shown you that before.”

“I – ” Clint starts, then breaks off, gasping, when Coulson pushes there again. “Oh _god_.”

Coulson doesn't say anything after that, just concentrates on making Clint lose his mind. He stretches him carefully, using lots of lube, and Clint's never had this many fingers in his ass before without it burning like fuck. This is nice, almost gentle, except for the spot that Coulson keeps hitting, making him gasp and twist, making him want to come.

“Shh, not yet, wait for me,” Coulson says, and slicks himself up.

Clint turns onto his chest. The change of position makes him panic, makes memories intrude, but Coulson catches the hitch in his breathing and stops to smooth a hand down the length of Clint's spine.

“It's me,” he says, slowly pressing the head of his cock into Clint's hole. Clint's gone and locked up again, and Coulson doesn't press, just shifts back and forth a little bit, more touching than anything else. “It's me, Clint. I'm going to take care of you, remember?”

He is, he's going to, he has so far and oh, there's Coulson's cock, pushing into his ass. Clint gasps but doesn't tighten again, and instead shifts his hips so they spread a little more. Coulson is firm and hard but gentle behind him. He's on top of him, covering him, but he holds his weight up with his hands and doesn't press Clint to the bed and it's... strangely comforting.

Strangely comforting, but also hot. Clint's erection has flagged, but Coulson shifts and oh god, he's pressing into that sensitive spot again. Clint gasps and twitches, shifting his hips backwards to press himself more firmly onto Coulson's cock. Coulson chuckles but does it again, sliding in and out of Clint's ass until Clint's a shaking, panting mess. 

“Do you like that, baby? Do you like that, little boy?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Clint gasps. The last of Clint's pride, his last reserve of independence, washes away on the wave of pleasure that sweeps through him. He rocks backwards onto Coulson's cock. “Yes, I do. _Please_.”

Coulson chuckles, and Clint can feel it reverberating over his skin. It doesn't take much longer for Coulson to start fucking him in earnest. He pushes into Clint's ass like it belongs to him, and it _does_. Clint groans and spreads his legs to take it. He's never felt like this before.

Coulson reaches a hand around to grip the base of Clint's cock. His pushes forward to hit that sweet spot again, and bites Clint on the shoulder when Clint moans. 

“Do you want to come, little boy? Do you want to come for me?”

“Yes, master,” Clint pants. “Please, master.”

Coulson starts jerking Clint's cock. “Do it then. Come for me. Tighten your hole around my thick cock. I want to feel you come.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Clint groans. He can't help it. Coulson jerks his cock and it feels so _good_. He feels his orgasm start at the base of his spine. It shoots out of his hips and down through his cock. His ass tightens and Coulson rocks into him. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Yes, like that, just like that, always knew you'd be – _Clint!_ ”

Coulson goes stiff as he comes. His hips rock and Clint takes it, knowing that Coulson is coming inside of him, knowing that he's filling Clint's ass with come. 

Coulson stays there as long as he can, but eventually his arms begin to shake. He pulls his cock gently out of Clint's ass and then cuddles beside him, wrapping Clint in his arms and stroking his hands possessively up and down his sides. “Mmm. That was so good.” Coulson kisses the back of Clint's neck. “You're my good boy.”

Clint shivers. Coulson soothes him. “There, there. Good boy.”

“Is it – ” Clint swallows. “Is it always going to be like that?” Good, and hot, and just the right amount of rough.

“No, baby,” Coulson assures him. He keeps rubbing his hands up and down Clint's sides. “But don't worry, you're mine now, and I always take care of things that are mine.”

 

 

Epilogue 

 

"I can't believe Coulson got Barton to submit to him," Natasha grouses, re-reading the file her master has left open for her. She knows that the team her master wants to build starts with her and Barton, but she hadn't actually thought it'd be possible to create. 

"Two weeks additional leave," Fury says with a grin, signing his name to the form. "The rat bastard."

"You did promise," Natasha points out from her place on the floor.

"I did," Fury agrees. He looks over and meets her eyes, his smile turning wicked. "And I always keep my promises."

Natasha groans dramatically. She knows that he expects it, but she also knows that he knows that she knows. Mostly she does it because it feels good to give voice to her frustrations, which is also something that her master is aware of.

She has never met a man more perfectly suited to her. It is one of the many reasons why she is still here, and why she will go along with his demented plan. "I'd like to lodge a formal complaint."

Her master laughs, because it's ridiculous that a slave could do such a thing and he knows she'll do as she's told. "You never know," he tells her, "you might enjoy yourself."

"You already said I couldn't kill him," Natasha mutters, "so I don't see how."

"You and Barton will get along far too well once you get over this little grudge-match between you," her master goes on. "Being sent to the middle of the Amazon on a two week mission is a good step in that direction. I expect you both to return alive and relatively unharmed. We can't go destroying Coulson's new pet a month after he finally breaks him in."

"Yes, sir," Natasha agrees. She pauses, then looks up at him from under her lashes, the way he likes. "But we aren't leaving for another three weeks, isn't that right?"

"It is," Fury says, sounding amused.

"However should we pass the time until then?"

Her master smiles and picks her up from the floor, balancing her on his lap. She can already feel him start to swell through his pants, his cock long and thick against her thighs. 

"Oh," he says, smiling wickedly, "I'm sure we can come up with a few ideas."

 

 

The End


End file.
